


Joyeux Noël

by sgam76



Series: A Felicitous Natal Celebration [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aggressively sweet, Asperger's Sherlock Holmes, Autistic Sherlock, BSL, BSL is Sherlock's first language, Child Sherlock Holmes, Gen, Kidlock, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Protective Mycroft, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:00:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28268025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sgam76/pseuds/sgam76
Summary: Mycroft has often acted as a buffer between his baby brother and the world. In this case, he needs a little skill at persuasion, but a whole lot more in (subtle, and largely harmless) deception to carry the day.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes
Series: A Felicitous Natal Celebration [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/429772
Comments: 44
Kudos: 101





	Joyeux Noël

**Author's Note:**

> Consider this little fic a Christmas/holiday present--just a small idea that popped into my head, and addressed my need for something sweet and gentle, with a happy ending. Best wishes to all my homies!
> 
> NOTE: In this, Sherlock is not quite 7. Mycroft is 14.
> 
> P.S.--Regular readers may notice a small reference to a scene in Redemption. That's entirely intentional. And remember that in my world, BSL was Sherlock's first language, and is something he reverts to under stress for some time.

“You have to say it,” Mycroft said, for the fourth—no, fifth—time.

The bundle of blankets in front of him, tucked into the only vacant stall in the small, battered barn, ignored him, as per the previous attempts. The blankets radiated an air of fury and despair.

In the next stall Daisy, his brother’s chubby, elderly pony, moved restively, hopeful that someone, _anyone_ , would offer her a treat. She could be forgiven for being a little cross--that _was_ the usual result of an evening visit to the barn, after all. Madagascar, Mycroft’s tall, bony gelding, rustled in the stall beyond her, dozing but hopeful.

“You broke Mummy’s cup,” Mycroft offered. “I know you were upset. _Tante_ Giselle didn’t realize, and she’s sorry for that. But you must apologize for throwing it.”

A small, bony hand snaked out from under the blankets. **_No_** , it signed. If hands could be rude, this one managed it.

Mycroft sighed. “Lockie, it’s been _7 hours_. It’s cold, even with the heater. You’ll make yourself ill again, and then you won’t be able to go to the Nutcracker on Monday.” He paused for effect. “You’ll _hate_ that. And Daddy will be so disappointed—you know how hard it was to get tickets.”

The barn was still as the blankets considered. A second skinny little hand poked out. **_You tell her_** , they signed.

Mycroft sighed again. Daisy, giving up on treats, joined him. “I tried,” he said. “She says she won’t try to give you new foods again; she understands now, and she’s sorry for trying to trick you. But you still have to apologize.”

 ** _It was horrible/nasty_** , the hands said, using one of their own personal signs for “things Lockie can’t bear”. **_I almost sicked up_**.

“I know,” Mycroft said patiently. “I told her.” Daisy leaned over the fence to tug impatiently at the blankets with long yellow teeth. One little hand shoved her gently away.

The “horrible/nasty” thing in question was freshly made eggnog. _Tante_ Giselle had come to stay, and was childminding the Holmes boys until Christmas Eve, when their parents would return from France. They had originally planned to all spend the season at Grandmere’s flat in Paris, until Lockie had come down with a heavy cold that prevented travel. _Tante_ Giselle had volunteered to come from her place at Oxford and stay the week, since she had already planned to wait to head to France until New Year’s Eve. As Mycroft had volunteered to stay with his brother, he would travel to his grandmother’s with his aunt once his parents returned. He was rather looking forward to it.

 _Tante_ Giselle was a good sort, for the most part; understood Lockie’s quirks, didn’t try to force him into doing things that made him uncomfortable. But she had decided it was time he expanded his repertoire of acceptable food and drinks (which even Mycroft had to admit was a very short list at present). When coaxing proved futile, she had decided to use a gentle subterfuge, filling Lockie’s cup with eggnog instead of milk and not telling him. She genuinely thought he’d like it—it was quite sweet, and very mildly spiced. But she hadn’t reckoned with his exquisite sensitivity to texture. The thick, almost syrup-like liquid sat momentarily in Lockie’s mouth before his face worked, he spat it across the table, and launched the cup violently away with a look of betrayal and a gag. _Tante_ Giselle, flinching as the cup flew by and broke, spun on her little nephew, grabbed his shoulder and shook him roundly, ordering him firmly in French to apologize _at once_ and clean up the mess.

Lockie, his face screwing into a dark scowl, lurched away and sped out the kitchen door into the garden. Mycroft started to follow, but his aunt stopped him. “Let him go,” she said. “He will get hungry, by and by.” Then she moved to mop up the mess in the floor.

Mycroft waited several hours; he had his doubts that hunger would drive his brother back inside, but he thought cold might do the trick. When _Tante_ Giselle started working on supper, though, he decided the time for action had come. He checked Daddy’s workshop, then the garage, and finally the barn. He’d been there now for almost an hour, with very little progress to show for it.

He thought now of that supper, though—whether Lockie was hungry or not, Mycroft certainly was, and _Tante_ wouldn’t hold the meal forever. “ _Tante’s_ making _coq a vin_ ,” he crooned. “With the little potatoes you like.” That dish (well, mostly the potatoes), oddly enough, was on his brother’s “acceptable” list, though they didn’t get it very often since Mummy rarely had the patience to cook. Mycroft suspected it was a peace offering of sorts, though his aunt would never actually say so.

There was a cough, followed by a little wordless sound from the blankets; encouraging, but not quite enough. “I don’t think she’ll let you eat until you apologize,” he offered, which was both true and false. Would she let Lockie have the _coq au vin_? Probably not. But would she send him to bed hungry? Never. A bowl of homemade cream of chicken soup would almost certainly be found lurking in the warming drawer, just in case.

The hands withdrew into the blankets. Daisy reached over for another experimental tug; this time the hands just held on from the inside.

Mycroft thought a vulgar word Mummy would be horrified to know he knew.

“Can you at least come out and sit with me?” he asked. “So I can tell you’re all right?” He did want that, but he also had an ulterior motive. It was easier to gauge his brother’s reactions if he could see his face and body language.

There was a long, charged silence. Then the blankets rustled and a dirty, exhausted little boy emerged, eyes red. He crawled over to nestle at Mycroft’s side silently, shivering as the cold air hit him. He shot one darting glance at Mycroft’s face before dropping his eyes firmly to his hands.

Mycroft reached over to fish the blankets from under Daisy’s indignant nose, wrapping them tightly around narrow little shoulders in the way Lockie preferred. “There, isn’t that better?” he asked, and got a tiny nod in response.

“Now,” he said, as Lockie leaned a little more heavily against him, “I think we must come up with a compromise. Do you know how Mark Twain described that?” he asked. Lockie liked Mark Twain, especially _A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court_ , which Daddy had been reading to him at bedtime the past few weeks.

The dark, messy curls shook in negation.

“He said that a ‘successful compromise is one in which both sides walk away equally unhappy’, or words to that effect,” Mycroft said. He quite liked that definition himself.

 ** _How?_** Lockie signed, without looking up.

Reading between the lines, Mycroft presumed his little brother was asking about the applicability of the concept to their current situation. “You must apologize,” he said, and ignored the rigorously shaking head below him. “No, that must happen. _Tante_ insists. But she hasn’t dictated what you must say, or how you must say it, now has she?” he continued, thinking it through as he spoke.

Lockie made an inquisitive little sound, and glanced up at his brother’s face again. Definite progress.

Ten minutes later, the brothers stood in the kitchen in front of their aunt, who was at the stove, spoon in hand. “Lockie is ready to say sorry,” Mycroft announced (choosing his words quite carefully), and pulled his reluctant brother out from behind him. “But, as you can see, he is still rather upset. It would be easier for him to sign, if you will permit?”

 _Tante_ Giselle’s face softened. She put the spoon down and knelt in front of Lockie, who refused to raise his head. “Of course, _beb_ _é_ ,” she said, laying her hand briefly on one grimy cheek. Then she leaned back on her heels expectantly.

They had worked this out very carefully. _Tante_ knew both French and English very well. But what she did _not_ know was Sign, in either language. And therein lay their loophole.

Mycroft was just a tiny bit smug about the whole thing. But he could enjoy that later.

Lockie put his hands up and signed, slowly and clearly. **_I am sorry you did a silly/stupid thing. I wish I had not broken the cup. It was an accident and not my fault. But I will try to forgive you._** Then he darted back behind Mycroft, only to peer shyly back around towards his aunt, who looked on expectantly for a translation.

“He is sorry,” Mycroft intoned, as Lockie nodded solemnly. “He did not mean to break the cup. It was accidental. He hopes for forgiveness.”

Tante Giselle melted. She leaned forward and gave both her nephews a brisk, firm embrace, knowing Lockie’s aversion to soft or extended touches. “Of course, my dear,” she said fondly, then rose and lifted her spoon in triumph. “And now, let us eat and be merry, for all is well. _Joyeux Noël!”_

Mycroft, from behind her shoulder (and carefully out of her view) managed to catch his brother’s eye and wink. “ _Joyeux Noël!_ ” he replied, and meant it.


End file.
